Period
by The Bandit
Summary: One shot fic. Lance finds common ground between hockey and Voltron.


**Period  
_By: The Bandit_**

_Voltron: Defender of the Universe and its characters are the property of WEP/Toei animation. _

_Author's note: The quote used is from Charles Dickens. Rated PG for language. _

So it's come down to this final moment. 

Positioned in the middle of the vast, deserted battleground, I can feel the cold seeping into my body as quickly if I was buck naked instead of heavily armored. Nervous perspiration is dripping from every pore in my body under my uniform, but I still feel the gooseflesh rising on my arms-a tactile reaction to the air slipping into the chinks in my gear and over my sweat drenched skin.

The silent void around me seems to be at absolute zero, and the smooth, hard surface beneath my feet my only grip on reality. I attempt to calm myself as I wait for the signal by reciting a famous quote from one of my favorite Terran authors, whose flesh and bones have long been returned to the elements of nature but whose words live on, however, for others to read and possibly gain inspiration from, as I had.

_'It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness. It was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of despair. We had everything before us, we had nothing before us, were all going directly to heaven, we were all going directly the other way, in short, the period was so like the present…'_

My recitation is cut off and my senses are set on edge by a loud, reverberating sound, its high-pitched waves reaching painful new heights in the crisp atmosphere. Like a Pavlovian dog reacting to a bell, the harsh sound reminds me that I have to move, that I have a mission and that until now I have been hanging back and doing nothing to help out my teammates.

"Are you the Iceman, or just retarded?" I mutter to myself in disgust, and then launch myself forward without thought, arms and legs working effortlessly, and in perfect sync.

My purpose is clear; I am to engage the enemy's last line of defense and obliterate it. I clench my jaw in determination- those who had done evil to one of our own were now going to pay the price at my hands.

My lungs fill to maximum capacity, and my heart begins to pound. I can feel the blood lust coursing through my body as fast and furious as a galloping thoroughbred. Oddly enough, my thoughts separate from the motion as I pick up speed, hurtling like a Super Nova toward my ultimate goal. How does my opponent perceive me as I bear down upon him? Am I an unstoppable force to his immovable object, a lumbering behemoth bent on destruction? Or am I merely fresh prey in a hunting season that has no end?

I'm close now, and I fancy I can see the enemy's cold eyes glaring at me from behind his shielding. I return the discourtesy and our gazes lock. We dance, transfixed, like two cobras getting ready to strike. Instinct and some unknown deity guide me to my target. Instinct and years of experience tell me to feint to the left and shoot right. I launch the missile with my usual pinpoint accuracy. …and success! The enemy has been vanquished! Score one for the Voltron Force!

A crimson light and the sounds of sirens fill the air as I take a triumphant lap around the target area. I can see my teammates flying towards me, ready to celebrate this huge victory, this unbelievable triumph for the underdogs from Arus. I ignore the burning sensation in my quadriceps and the screaming of muscles suffering from the build up of lactic acid as I go to join them. As if a stopper had been pulled out of each ear, I can suddenly hear the happy screams of my friends and the entire population of a war torn planet.

Yes, I had done it! I had won the biggest battle of them all! After years of being beat up, blown out and trashed, Planet Arus had finally had seen their dream come true-they now had the Intergalactic Cup. I was the hero this time, the one to make the penalty shot in triple overtime; the only one that could made it happen because of my superior skills, flawless instincts, some very special hockey equipment- and a rabbit's foot.

The Princess kisses me warmly- but on the cheek, damn it all- and whispers that she's proud of me and then presents me with the cup. It's huge, unwieldy, and rather kitschy in style but I raise it high over my head anyway, relishing the victory and my moment of glory. My teammates crowd around me, slapping my back with their gloved hands and congratulating me on a job well done.

Suddenly a voice rises above the cheers of the crowd- it's Keith, and he's shouting my name too! Visions of a special commendation fill my head as I turn toward the sound of his voice- that oddly enough, seems to be getting louder…

"Hey Lance, are you just going stand around with that idiotic smile on your face, or are you going to join us for practice? We only have two hours of ice time and we need every second of it."

Practice? What are they talking about? Don't they know we just won the Intergalatic Cup, for crying out loud?

"The Garrison junior varsity team we're scheduled to play has a perfect record and we're going be hard pressed to beat 'em. Better get a move on, Lance." Sven says grimly.

"Okay, I'll there in a minute." I respond automatically.

The people, the cheering and the cup have all vanished. Slowly my conscious self returns to my stark reality-an ice arena out in the Arusian boondocks that the locals affectionately refer to as the 'Meat Locker'. I am standing in the arena's dank, cinder-blocked locker room that boasts one bathroom, one open air shower and an occasional garter snake that creeps in through the plumbing. Every half hour the walls shake and the pipes rattle as the ancient Zamboni rumbles to life in the storage area next door. I don't know why they bother with that monstrosity- even when fresh made, the rink ice tends to have the consistency of oatmeal. Maybe when the war's over the Princess will finally be able to get her hands on some modern, artificial ice and have them use the Zamboni to shake the snakes out of the pipes.

God, I hate snakes. They give me the creeps.

I slide on my skate guards, then clomp out of the locker room to make the short trek to the ice, taking in the usual sounds, like Keith's incredibly irritating practice whistle, skate blades plowing through slush, pucks hitting the boards and Hunk spewing out obscenities in several different languages. I'm impressed when I hear one I don't recognize- apparently the Big Guy knows more foreign curse words than I do, and believe me, that's saying something.

"Dammit Pidge, could ya stay upright for more than three minutes so I can actually pass you the biscuit?"

"It's not a biscuit!" Pidge whines. "It's called a puck ya big dummy!"

"The Mega Gods of hockey call it a biscuit, and that's good enough for me!" Hunk bellows at him.

"But not for me!" Pidge squeaks back. "What a bunch of has-beens and losers! They haven't won the Cup for over two hundred years!"

Oooooh, that was a big mistake you just made, little guy.

"So what? Winning the Stanley Cup isn't all that makes a team great…"

Hunk's voice is shaking with outrage, and I debate whether I should return to the locker room. Once the Big Guy starts his 'Reasons Why the Colorado Avalanche are the Eternal Mega Gods of Hockey' lecture, we might as well kiss our ice time goodbye.

A shrill blast from our fearless leader's whistle ends the argument. I hide and wait while he finishes giving Hunk and Pidge one of his patented 'we're in this together/all we need is more zip and polish' lectures while a few of Princess Allura's guards and Sven skate around the perimeter of the rink. The Norseman is looking mighty pensive- probably thinking about Princess Romelle again, which is really too bad. The guy was a truly fearsome defenseman until he fell in love and lost his mean streak. There was a day when opposing players used to wet themselves upon hearing that the Norseman was assigned to take them out- but those days are long gone. Sven only takes clean, legal shots now…and I actually saw him help up a recipient of one of his bone crunching checks in our last game; not exactly the kind of behavior that's gonna instill fear in the hearts of our opposition. And I don't care if the kid was only thirteen- he was trying to score on us, dammit!

I peek around the corner and the Fearless One finally spots me. He toots that damn whistle and calls my name like I'm some sort of dog. I trot obediently out onto the ice, making a mental note to make sure I trip or high stick him sometime before the end of practice.

So here I am, standing in my usual position as a defenseman, in a not-so-frigid ice arena, listening to Hunk's knees crack as he warms up in goal, and feeling my skate blades sinking deeper into the hopelessly soft ice. The opposition's goal appears close…attainably close, but it might as well be light years away, because Keith doesn't believe in his defensemen playing offense and scoring goals.

He's our center, by the way. Figures, doesn't it?

As I wait for Keith to find the puck, which has mysteriously been thrown up into the bleachers, I look out upon the motley crew that comprises our team and I have an epiphany of sorts.

Reality bites.

The practice game starts. Keith takes the puck for the 'opposition', flies in and backhands it at the goal…but Hunk rejects it with a very impressive stick save. I bite my tongue to keep from cussing our perfect leader for being way out of position for a backhand shot, because I don't want to spoil Hunk's moment. Stick saves aren't his strong suit, or any kind of save really. Okay, so a sieve has nothing on the Big Guy-do you think I'm going to be stupid enough to tell him that? I'd say he would make a top-flight defenseman- he can actually skate- but then I'd probably be stuck in goal so I decide to keep my mouth shut. Then I see that Keith is out of position again, and suddenly I am tired of keeping my mouth shut.

"I'm open - pass the biscuit!" I yell, putting on a burst of speed while moving away from the goal. To my relief Hunk obeys without hesitation- leading me a little but not too much. It's a perfect pass, and since Keith was out of position, I have a clear shot at the goal.

I streak down the ice, ignoring the frantic blasts from Keith's whistle.

The goalie at the other end is a home towner who used to be a pro goalie. He's still in great shape and really good- in fact whenever I've faced him he's stopped all of my rocket shots with ease. Too bad he's fifty four years old.

I thunder towards him, and our gazes lock. We dance, like two cobras getting ready to strike. Instinct tells me to feint left and go upstairs with the biscuit.

I shoot.

I score.

The old man pulls off his mask as I skate by. "Nice fake kid," He says. "The Commander is wrong to put you on defense when you're obviously a natural center."

"Well…thanks," I say, surprised and absurdly pleased by the candid comment. "But Keith is the center."

"I am sure he's going to realize his mistake before too long. Just keep doing what you're doing and it'll pay off for you- the Castle of Lions wasn't built in a day you know." He tells me with a wink.

I decide not to inform him that technically the Castle of Lions _was_ built in day, because I understand and appreciate what he's trying to tell me.

"Nice goal Lance!" Sven and Pidge come up and high five me.

I look at Keith. He's wearing that half-exasperated, half-amused expression I am all too familiar with, and I steel myself for a lecture.

"You're out of position." He says.

"I know." I resign myself to doing the inevitable punishment sprints, but instead Mr. Predictable astounds me by breaking into a smile.

"That was one hell of a deke, and you're fast too. I may need to rethink your position. How does playing center sound to you?"

I gape at him and he crooks an eyebrow at me. "We'll talk about it after practice. Until then, get back on defense and stay there!"

"Yes sir!" I snap a jaunty but heartfelt salute, then glance down at the other end of the ice to where Hunk and Sven are busy giving Pidge friendly pointers on improving his skating. The little guy is avidly taking it all in without a word of complaint.

Then inspiration hits one more time.

"Say Keith, I was just thinking…if you change me to center, Hunk could switch to defense and I bet I know where we can get a terrific replacement for him in goal."

Keith knows what I mean without me having to say another word, as I knew he would. Guess that comes from being teammates. He nods his approval of the plan.

We turn to the old man.

He's wearing a grin that makes him look twenty years younger. I skate over to him, and we exchange a high five. I think that maybe Hunk is right… winning a championship isn't the only thing that makes a team great.

I turn to grin at Keith.

He grins back and gives me a thumbs up for good measure.

And just for a moment…the cheering is back.

The end


End file.
